


Lucky Enough

by stanleypinesvevo



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Ableist Language, Drabble, F/F, Femslash, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Mentions of Therapy, One Shot, Post-Weirdmageddon, cliche gay shit, girls being cute and gay, internalized ableism, it's rlly sweet i swear, mabifica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6410104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stanleypinesvevo/pseuds/stanleypinesvevo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Underneath the stars and in the grass, Pacifica Northwest contemplates her life and the people in it, and the one person in particular who changed her for the better and stole her heart in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bibesties](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibesties/gifts).



> short one-shot drabble thing. i wrote this for an ask meme on tumblr. this was written post-finale and although Take Back the Falls did see Preston and Priscilla somewhat redeem themselves, they still abused Pacifica and i'm not comfortable pretending that they suddenly became wonderful, loving people after the apocalypse. humbled, maybe, but they're still child abusers in my eyes. ANYWAY, this is rlly cheesy and gay and i'm gonna step off my soap box and just let u enjoy my garbage.

“It’s getting cold out here,” you breathe, exhaling the way the therapist-the one they sent you to when all of a sudden liking girls and not liking being treated like shit by your own parents meant that you were crazy, obviously-taught you. You were sixteen and “a danger to yourself,” apparently, or at least that’s what your father said when he called up a shrink behind your back one day, and when you came home from school both of your parents were sitting there beside each other at the dining room table, the perfect picture of faux concern for a daughter they only pretended to care about. 

It wasn’t all bad, though, and if they were different people you might even be thanking them. The deep breathing exercises were helpful in the long run, and whenever you feel your chest become tight with emotion (ugh, why couldn’t you just _get rid_ of those? why can’t you just be the apathetic, prissy little girl you were three years ago?) you close your eyes and play the instructions in your head on repeat: breathe in, breathe out. _Deep breaths, Pacifica. In, out. In, out. In …_

The body next to yours shifts suddenly, and you jump up with a pathetic squeal because for a moment there you had actually forgotten that you weren’t alone. You’re so used to being alone, _feeling_ alone, even in a room with hundreds of other people, oohing and ahhing over the fancy chocolate fountains and the live quails that for some reason were put in everyone’s gift bag every year. In fact, until Dipper and Mabel had made you come to your senses and realize that other people’s feelings were more important than your own ego, those parties had probably seen you at your loneliest. 

Mabel.

She giggles, all braces and flushed cheeks and purple glittery eyeshadow, and you can feel her breath, warm on your face. If the shiver that goes down your spine is noticeable, Mabel either decides to ignore it (unlikely) or chalks it up to the cold (far more likely). And then-ah, yes, there it is: Mabel is reaching into her bag and searching for the biggest, fluffiest sweater she can find, screwing up her face with concentration and sticking our her tongue just slightly. You can’t help but laugh; not meanly, not like you would have a few summers ago. You never want to laugh at Mabel that way ever again, you never want to hurt her feelings, ever.

“Here you go! Perfect!” she exclaims with a grin, throwing a huge, gaudy sweater at you that may have at one point been yellow, but now it’s a sad off-white, and there are permanent bleach stains around the collar. This must be an Original Mabel Creation from years ago, you think; you’re not surprised that she’s kept it, even in it's pathetic state. You tug it on over your head without hesitance, and you happily note that though the sweater has seen better days, it smells clean, and sweet, and all things Mabel. You can’t remember the last time you felt this warm.

“Thanks, Mabes. This is perfect. You’re always on top of things, aren’t you?” you quip, feeling silly for getting so emotional over a damn sweater.

The other girl’s grin never falters, and though it is dark even under the light of a thousand stars you think you see her face go pink, but not the kind of pink it goes when she gets excited over hearing a Sev’ral Timez song on the radio or going to a craft fair. It’s different, and beautiful, and you’d like to think that it’s just for you. “You know me, Minute Mabel, always ready to serve at the drop of a hat,” she teases, striking a heroic pose. You both laugh.

You find yourself slowly easing your way back onto the grass and Mabel follows your lead, albeit more clumsily and with far more enthusiasm. She’s still giggling after you’ve both settled onto your soft bed of earth, the cool grass undoubtedly staining your leggings and your new designer boots-$298, sleek black, ending just below the knee-but somehow you find yourself not caring. Your parents will just yell at you and threaten to take your car away again. You’ve been there a dozen times before. They never follow through.

“It’s so beautiful out tonight,” sighs Mabel dreamily, her brown hair spread all around her, framing her endearingly round face. This close up you can see every sparkle of glitter lining her eyes, every dark eyelash that’s been curled and painted, quite possibly by the mascara you’d recommended last week when the two of you were out shopping. Her lips are glossed but they’re starting to chap, the slight wind getting to them. She is tranquil, lying there serene as Ophelia letting the water drag her down, unsettlingly calm and smiling as she sinks to her grave. 

You barely hear yourself agreeing, muttering something like “yeah, definitely” into the night sky as your heart pounds in your ears. _**You’re** beautiful tonight,_ you don’t say, not out loud. _You’re beautiful every night and every day and I’m pretty sure I’m in love you. Weird, right?_

“Thanks for coming stargazing with me, Paz,” she says quietly, grabbing your hand and slipping her fingers through yours as though it’s second nature, and maybe it is, maybe you should be holding her hand like this all the time, because it feels good, it feels _right_. “You’re a really good friend. I’m glad I’m lucky enough to see that.”

You absolutely do not feel tears pricking your eyes, you are not fighting your hardest not to blubber like a big baby and ruin your perfectly applied winged liner, because it’s not as if your heart feels as if it’s going to burst out of your chest, and you certainly aren’t wondering all of sudden what flavor that lip gloss is anyway.

“I’m the lucky one, Mabes,” is your reply, no more than a whisper and dripping with fondness. She turns to you and smiles.

The gloss is cherry, and you can still taste it when you finally reach your room well after two in the morning, practically melting into your bed. _Next time I’ll tell her_ is your last thought before slipping into comfortable darkness.


End file.
